


Fruit

by sloganeer



Series: 1, 2, 3, 4, tell me that you love me more [4]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anniversary, Husbands, M/M, Mental Health Issues, domestic angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: Their marriage was the one part of Patrick’s life in which he was absolutely certain. Or he had been. Now his husband was sleeping at Stevie’s place and texting him to stay away from the shop.-This is year 4.





	Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> CW: this story deals with anxiety, depression, and the treatment thereof. There is a happy ending, but not all is neatly resolved. 
> 
> Also, I wrote this on my phone, so please point out any egregious typos.

“Happy anniversary, Patrick!” Twyla handed him a menu and poured coffee into the mug across the table. “I’ll be back to take your order when David joins you,” she said, and then she was gone before he could stop her. 

But he didn’t know what he would say. How could he explain David wouldn’t be joining him for breakfast this morning. 

They had never fought like this before. That’s what bothered him. They saved their real fights for the business; harsh words were never spoken about their relationship. 

Their marriage was the one part of Patrick’s life in which he was absolutely certain. Or he had been. Now his husband was sleeping at Stevie’s place and texting him to stay away from the shop. 

He wanted to talk to his mom. She told him to call anytime, but Alexis was supposed to be here soon. Patrick dumped two creamers and three sugars into David’s coffee, then drank it down. 

It kinda tasted like him. 

“Hi.” Alexis’s voice was soft and gentle, and she smiled when Patrick lifted his head off the table. “You really effed this one up, huh?”

He conceded her the point. He wished David would let him do the same. 

They had grown into their routine. It worked for them. Patrick was a morning person, and David was not, so he slept in, while Patrick opened the shop, then David stayed late to close, while Patrick got off early. David was always in by 10. Usually, he was in before that. 

But then last week, he didn’t make it to the shop until 11. Patrick teased him a little, and David waved it off, and the next day, he was ready to go by 9:30. And then he was late again, coming in with lunch for the both of them. Patrick didn’t say anything. 

On Tuesday, David didn’t show up at all. Patrick called, he texted, he flipped the sign and walked across to the café. Finally, he closed up early and drove home, worried, frantic, dialling again, and praying to whomever might be listening. 

David was asleep in their bed. He wasn’t dressed. And he wasn’t hurt, and Patrick was yelling before his brain could put the pieces together. 

David cried. Patrick cried. David left. Patrick slept on their couch. 

“I know I fucked up, Alexis.” He watched for her reaction. The Roses said everything with their eyebrows. “But I don’t know how to fix this.”

Twyla interrupted them. “Alexis, hi! Just so you know, the fruit guy is late, but I can make your smoothie with apple pie filling if you like.”

“We need a few more minutes with the menu, Twy.”

She smiled and walked to the next table. None of them needed more time with the Café Tropical menu, not after all these years, but Patrick was grateful Twyla wasn’t perceptive enough to ask questions. 

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you. He’s got us all on lockdown, as if this was anything like terrorists in the embassy.”

“Thank you, Alexis.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “He’s not my only brother anymore,” she said. “I know you’re worried, and I know it hasn’t been this bad in a long time. Not since you, anyway.”

Patrick tried to smile. That was something. 

He knew about David’s past with doctors—but only the bad stories—and Patrick knew about the pills—prescription and not. He knew what the doctors said David had and what David had diagnosed by himself. Patrick knew by now what David needed from him when he felt anxious, when he worked himself up, when he couldn’t come down. 

But Patrick hadn’t seen the depression before. He hadn’t seen David curled up in bed and not want to be there. He didn’t know what it felt like to be unable to get up. 

“First thing, apologise, and don’t stop until he hears you. I’ll watch the store if you need me to. Plant your little behind at that doorstep and don’t leave until your husband takes you back.”

“Done,” Patrick said, halfway to his feet when Alexis spoke again. 

“I know you, button. You and me, we know how to get shit done, the kind of shit that no one else wants to do.” She held up a long manicured finger, and Patrick shut up. “But this isn’t one of those things you can fix. You have to let him take charge.”

“I know that,” Patrick said. Alexis glared. “I know that now.”

“I kinda hoped you’d figure it out before you called the doctors.”

He cringed. There it was. When he explained the fight to his parents, they didn’t understand either. The Brewers thought they were helping. The Roses knew better. 

Patrick pushed his way out of the booth. Alexis looked up at him, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Tell Twyla to put your breakfast on my tab.”

“I might order something to take home for Ted.”

“That, too,” Patrick said. 

On the way out the door, the fruit guy was pushing his dolly up the ramp. Patrick nodded a good morning. Billy was a regular around town. 

“You look like crap, Mr. Brewer.”

He was also a good farmer’s son. 

“Thanks, Billy.” Patrick held the door, then he stole a pineapple, teetering on the top of the crate. 

He had to walk to Stevie’s apartment; David had taken their car. It was a nice day, and Patrick didn’t deserve it. 

He texted to say he was coming—first David, then Stevie. Neither responded, though they read his texts. At least they were together. If David wasn’t sitting next to her, Patrick knew Stevie wouldn’t be able to contain her rage. 

He held the front door open for Mrs. Buffett and her stroller, sneaking into the foyer. Patrick took the stairs; he couldn’t wait for the elevator. 

As he entered the hall, wondering if he should begin with “I’m sorry” or “I love you,” he caught sight of David, sitting on the floor outside Stevie’s door—sitting in the spot Patrick thought he would have to claim for the next few days. 

“David.” It came out of his mouth like a desperate sigh, but it was heard. David looked up, eyes rimmed with red, and he sobbed with his whole body when their eyes met. 

Patrick said “I love you” because they were the most important words, then “I’m sorry,” then they were both crying and clinging and crumpled on the floor. 

He waited for David to be ready to talk. Patrick held him close, rubbed his back, wiped his tears. 

He started crying again when David kissed his forehead.

Through the door, Stevie called out, “Now take him home!”

David actually laughed. They were almost OK. 

“Why were you carrying a pineapple?” David asked, as Patrick held his hands, kissing the tip of every single finger. 

“You missed breakfast,” he said.


End file.
